Tick Tock Goes The Clock
by Bugsyboo1313
Summary: The 100th Hunger Games are about to begin, the Capitol has a special announcement for the citizens of Panem. The characters of BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, The Avengers, The Hobbit, Star Trek: Into Darkness, and The World's End are put into an arena to fight to the death. Only one victor may remain. Check inside for ratings and district members. Reviews appreciated!
1. The Chosen One

**Tick Tock Goes The Clock (Chapter 1)**

The Chosen One (Sherlock's POV)

* * *

**WARNINGS: **_descriptive images, violence, major character deaths, etc. _

_***I do not own any of these fandoms. (BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who, The Hunger Games, Harry Potter, The Hobbit/Lord Of The Rings, The Avengers, Star Trek: Into Darkness, The World's End) They belong to their rightful owners. **_

_*Pay attention to who the chapter's POV is from (it changes for each chapter)_

* * *

Districts & Tributes

*Note: _(#) = _Their ages

**District 1: **_Sherlock Holmes (15) / Nyota Uhura (17)_

**District 2: **_Thorin Oakenshield (18) / Luna Lovegood (14)_

**District 3: **_Tony Stark (17) / Irene Adler (16)_

**District 4: **_Gary King (16) / Natasha Romanova (16)_

**District 5: **_Rory Williams (13) / Molly Hooper (12)_

**District 6: **_Greg Lestrade (16) / Martha Jones (13)_

**District 7: **_Ron Weasley (15) / Sam Chamberlain (14)_

**District 8: **_Harry Potter (15) / Amelia Pond (13)_

**District 9: **_11__th__ Doctor (17) / Pepper Potts (17) _

**District 10: **_James Kirk (18) / Clara Oswin Oswald (12)_

**District 11: **_Steve Rodgers (18) / Hermione Granger (16)_

**District 12: **_John Watson (16) / River Song (17)_

* * *

The only sound I hear are my own footsteps against the pebbles scattered over the ground, making a harmonious melody while they scrape together beneath my leather shoes. No one is with me; I don't want anyone with me. Even in my short years of life, I never found much interest in paying attention to my own kind, let alone talking to someone.

Perhaps it's because they're all stupid or it's the fact that I am a genius. I have the most scientific mind of anyone I know. I can think more clearly than most of the withered adults in my neighborhood; I even outsmarted a young man once when he made a dumb mistake and I was able to fool him by making a few minor deductions, resulting in me snatching up a full loaf of bread for dinner that night.

Most people call me weird, a freak even. Children wonder down the roads, finding whatever scraps of food they can to bring back home to their families. I pass them by and they all exchange sneers with me, including the teenagers. No one appreciates me around here. Nobody. Well, with the one exception of my brother and my mother, but even then my older sibling despises me most of the time.

In the nation of Panem, of the country once known as North America, twelve districts are split up among the people. There used to be thirteen, but I heard a rumor that it was bombed and the entire population was annihilated. Lucky for me, my family and I have just so happened to land in the vast area of District 1, which thankfully is the wealthiest district, besides the Capitol.

I find it best to get some fresh air while I walk down the winding street, as it may be my last time I'm able to observe and capture the details of home. One step further on, just one step closer in time to the most dreadful day of the year. And even I, the boy who shows no emotions nor feelings whatsoever, cannot help but express a little fear for the next couple hours.

A light breeze cuts through the brown curls in my hair, yet I shiver even with a white buttoned-down shirt on. Being the baby of the family, I always got the least amount of clothing, until my older brother wears his out and they're passed down to me. I pass the marketplace, which very few people were there, and I head to my favorite place that I've known since I was born. A few older women are exchanging some sheets of cloth for a bit of meat, and I can't help but hear my stomach grumble at the thought of food.

Food is scarce around here. You want food, you have to fight to get a meal on the dinner table. Sometimes people trade old artifacts for things they can munch on, but still some kids where I live have torsos with ribs showing significantly.

Our house is nothing more than a one floored terrace, with five rooms total and three people sharing the space. I share a bedroom with my brother, which we each have our own mattress with one blanket for warmth. Water supply is limited, as I only end up bathing myself once a week; twice if I'm lucky.

My brother does absolutely nothing for a living. He applied for a job in the Capitol but was rejected, and thus he remains at home with myself and our mother. He never leaves the house and he's six years older than me. Occasionally he helps Mom out with scrubbing the dishes or cooking game that I may have caught, but other than that he remains in our bedroom and does nothing for the rest of the day.

Since my own family is boring, I usually find myself drifting off into the forest or meandering along the never ending roads. Nobody bothers me; they just let me mind my own business.

But you know what? Alone is what I have, and alone protects me.

Why am I walking alone? Why might this be my last day to see my home? It's all the Capitol's fault.

Every year, the people of all twelve districts are summoned to a reaping, in which a young man and woman are chosen to represent their district for an annual event. All 24 tributes are then deported to the Capitol, where they must be trained and placed in an arena to fight to the death.

And once your name is chosen, there's no turning back.

This event takes place every year as a punishment for the all-out war that occurred hundreds of years ago, firing up ashes and causing the human population to become extinct. Miraculously, a new race of people rose up from the fields of the war, and some moron thought it would be a brilliant idea to kill them all off again slowly for what happened in the past. And each year, it is the president's job in the Capitol to come up with a new vicious way to kill off his own people.

And thus The Hunger Games began.

Today is reaping day. Being fourteen years old, my name is up for grabs and in the selection bowl over fifty times, increasing my chances of becoming a tribute. I have a few hours to kill before the entire district will assemble together to witness the selection process, so I find the only comfort I'll have is sitting by the stream in the woods as I once did as a child.

A luminous sunshine glows over my head, making my shadow elongate on the ground while it creeps over the treetops. I tap a steady rhythm with my fingers to a beat, keeping myself entertained while I walk in silence.

In no time at all, I come to find myself at the border of the woods, growing at the very end of a deserted street. Just inside, hidden in one of the cracked trees, is a small knife I use to hunt animals. My family relies on me to catch our supper most of the time, so I've developed a few tricks and skills over the past few months.

Normally people watch me run into the depths of the trees, but they don't care and let me go off on my own. Either they believe I'm finding a way to escape from the district boundary or I just do my own 'weird' business while I'm in there. And yes, I am aware that eventually I will get caught by the Capitol; if and when I reach the district border one day, surely I will be murdered on the spot in a matter of days.

As part of my daily routine, I grab my knife hidden in safety and I head out into the woods, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of life. The trees don't expand very far; when you get to about a half a mile or so they come to a stop, so I am able to look out on an open field and sometimes watch a beautiful sunset.

I spotted no sign of a deer or rabbit anywhere, so I stuffed my weapon in my belt for safe keeping. It was rare when I found a deer lollygagging around District 1, but the goods news was it stored food for us for about a week.

I broke through the edge of the line of trees and found myself at the top of the well-known hill, blur sky spreading over 3/4 of my visual surroundings. The stream I sometimes swam in was at the bottom of the slope, which had a range in temperature depending on the season. We rarely get winter here; when it snows we only get a few centimeters and the children stay inside because their clothes can't protect them from the bitter cold. It is common for us to wake up in the mornings to find frost covering the crusty grass, but as the day goes on the heat picks up rapidly.

I let my legs skip down the steep hill as I come closer to the water's rushing currents. Today the liquid may be a bit chilly with the wind, but I have no worries about it effecting me at all.

Over the years I have collected heavy stones to place around the river's outer walls, so that when I come on a rainy day my feet won't slide on damp puddles that soaked into the blades of grass. It also helps to limit the amount of water that comes pouring over the edge in strong storms, but then again I always come back to find a few rocks are missing.

I stop pacing when I reach the riverbed, and I watch the currents flow by and carrying mud and twigs while it runs along undisturbed. All I take in is the steady sound of the river washing over rocks, mixed with leaves blowing in the wind from the trees. I breathe in to receive a fresh scent of grass, and I watch a few grasshoppers leap from one blade to the next.

A buzzing noise suddenly cuts through my hearing and I use my observation skills to discover a bees nest hidden under a rose bush. I don't fancy being stung, so I leave the bugs to their own business to produce honey; perhaps later I can use my hunting tricks to snatch up some for breakfast.

It's not long before I hear thumping footprints sinking into the dirt behind me, and I turn on the spot to find my older brother coming to comfort me. He doesn't stop till he comes to link his shoulder with mine, and we both stare at the horizon line beyond for a long while before he gets up the courage to speak out loud.

"You okay?" he asks, clearly knowing perfectly well that I am not. His presence here is new to me; no one has ever followed me while I walked.

"No," I flat out tell him. Somehow he finds a way to shift his weight without bumping into me.

My brother heaved a great sigh and bounced on his feet, feeling uncomfortable; just like he must have felt the day he was rejected by the Capitol. "You know you can't get avoid it; you can't back out, Sherlock."

It was the first time he'd said my name that day, and I couldn't avoid his eyes any longer. I lifted my head, which came to stop just below his nose, and stared into his stormy grey eyes.

"I know. But I want to..."

I lose the strength in my skull and let it fall into Mycroft's chest, and he grabs me around the collar and brings me in close. "Why do we have to put up with this My?" That's the nickname I always use for him, because I am too lazy to say a few more letters.

"I don't know." That's the first time I've heard him admit something, ever. "Why are you out here anyway?" he asks, tilting his head to stare down upon me.

"I figured I should get a last look at my welcoming hiding place before I'm shut in the dark for several days."

"Now don't say that," Mycroft blabs, pulling his business tone into good use. "The more you think about it and blame yourself if you get chosen, the more likely it will happen. Just ignore the reaping and pretend like we have a full year left to go."

"Yeah well that doesn't work," I grumble, and I can tell from the tensing of his muscles in the air next to me that he's beginning to get pissed off. "It's like a bomb," I continue, and I don't think he's paying any attention to my words. "The moments lug by as the clock ticks every second, and then your name is chosen on the end of a tether that you wish never existed and boom. Nothing remains. You have nothing left to live for, because no matter if the bomb explodes or not, you'll still die in the end."

I have either silenced Mycroft so bad he doesn't know how to respond, or I just said some vicious words and he is finding the harshest way to punish me in a few minutes flat.

"And so The Hunger Games commence," I explain, tapping my foot in the grass and feeling a glorious breeze brush over my cheekbones. "I can already see it; 24 tributes glued to platforms while a golden countdown blares in their eyes as they wait for the torturous alarm of their lives to blast out in the arena. One third tend to be killed at the opening of the cornucopia, and the rest flee for their lives, or what's left of them."

I think I'm making Mycroft uncomfortable, because he keeps shifting between the balls of his feet. I am done with my rant, so I suppose he's finding the right sentence to follow.

My brother's next remark is hurtful and I want to tell him that I don't need the negative advice right now. "The bad thing is, you still have a couple years after this reaping for you to get chosen; only, you'd be a more experienced fighter if you're selected at the age of 18."

"Thanks My..."

Off in the distance we hear a sort of bird calling out to it's children, and I am dying to throw my knife if it came into view and kill it for a meal.

"Come on," Mycroft says, squeezing my collarbone with his strong upper arm. "We'd better head back home so you can prepare for the ceremony."

"I really don't care," I snap back. "They have their vocabulary wrong; it's not a ceremony or an 'honored privilege' as they put it; it's an excuse to murder innocent people for fun."

I'm so frustrated I turn and take large strides back home alone, leaving my older brother contemplating about what I have become and how he'll deal with me when I'm all grown up; or perhaps when I'm possibly dead.

* * *

I reach our house 15 minutes before Mycroft does, and my mother is in the kitchen preparing a light soup for me to eat before I change my clothes. I thank her and take a seat at the wobbly table just as my brother walks in the front door. She plants a warm kiss on my cheek for a soothing touch, and she goes to look her best at the selection gathering as well, even though she definitely can't be chosen.

I have trouble gulping down the broth because the chunks of cooked chicken get stuck in the back of my throat. Mycroft passes by without taking one glance at me, and I don't care since he put me down while I was already in a state of misery. I get up from the table and place mu dishes in the sink, leaving them to sit on their own; I don't even bother to wash them off since my hands are shaking so badly.

I catch my mother exiting from her room as I come to get changed, and she rubs the knotted muscles in my back. I pat her hair, running my fingers through her silky locks; or maybe it's grease and I just can't tell the difference.

My mother leaves to let me change alone; for some reason everyone dresses as nicely as they can for the reaping ceremony. She's left me a clean shirt and a nice pair of dress pants for me to wear. A shiny pair of shoes is sitting on the foot of my bed, and I quickly dress myself and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

A tall, skinny boy looks back at me. High cheekbones line his pale face, and dark brown curls fall perfectly from an off center part. Shocking blue eyes look me up and down with a touch of green added to my irises. As I flatten the ruffles in my shirt I can't help thinking about all the other people up for selection during the reaping.

My brother is finished with his turn; he's too old to be entered into the games, so he goes to stand with my mother while I have to go through with hearing sacrificed names blared into a microphone, crossing my fingers every year that I don't get picked.

A hear a delicate knock on the door and I mumble for my only parent to come in. She opens the door a crack and peers her head around, staring at me through the mirror rather than at my actual self. I look into her eyes through the glassy surface, a frown permanently smeared on my face until this whole process is over and done.

Slowly her footsteps echo off the creaking wooden floorboards, and next second she's standing by my side and looking down on me; her youngest son.

"My boy," she whispers, and suddenly she breaks out in tears. I am pulled into a loving hug, burying my face in her chest and muttering soothing words so she calms down. Tears splotch my right shoulder as she weeps, and all too soon my sibling is lounging in the doorframe, no doubt coming to see what the commotion was about.

After a few long moments my mother breaks away from me, brushing off my collar and priming up my appearance. I turn my head to seek help or advice from my brother, but none comes. He simply frowned and gazed at the floor, shifting his weight between his two feet.

Before closing the door of my bedroom, I take in as much detail as I can about home. I collect the memories of all that happened in this house, never wanting to leave it's protection under the roof. Sadly, my fingers bring the handle to snap shut on the hinges, and I exhaled enormously as I have a strong gut feeling I'll never sleep in my bed again.

* * *

My mother holds me hand all the way to the district's main square, and my brother follows close behind like a watchdog. Our walk took some time; the village center was two miles away and everyone needed to arrive early for check in. All around us, families and parents held on to their children, squeezing the air out of them before they even had a chance to be up for death anyway. Fathers helped prepare their kids for the selection and mothers nervously rushed about, cleaning off dirt from their family members' faces. You could tell when we were getting close to the gathering place because dozens of groups were scattered around and pushed through the crowd to say their final goodbyes.

We stopped near a large shed that was used for storing resources and was always bolted up so my family could wish me luck. Reaping day was the one day of the year where I received a hug from my brother, and I could feel my mother pulling at my hair as I headed off to join the rest of the crowd.

The Capitol had sent many men to come and set up a large stage right in the center of town, acting as a platform so everyone could hear and see the tributes being selected. Two large television were wired high up on balconies, and I knew they were for showing the video message from the Capitol that always played before the tributes are chosen.

Many tables had been set up so the people of age could check in, and I looked around to find the desk for the older kids. I had to wait in line for a while, but I just kept stepping up further to come closer to the ceremony starting.

"Next." I blinked a few times before realizing it was my turn to step forward, and I held out my hand for the man dressed in all while. I felt a painful jab at my pointer finger as he took a sample of my blood, no doubt classifying my true identity. There was no lying while you were under the watch of the Capitol.

I suck my bleeding finger as I go to stand my ground, stationed in the third row of boys; alphabetical order by last name. The boy next to me is praying to himself, clearly from an old religious group of people since no one really practices this kind of thing anymore.

It takes a little less than an hour for everyone to be situated, and then the people from the Capitol up on the stage move around to announce the first speech. Three men in polished black suits sit in the chairs near the city hall, and one lone ranger steps forward to tap on the microphone. The noise from just one touch in contact scars most of the crowd, as the volume is blaring in some peoples' ears.

"Welcome, welcome!" The male's voice is deep when he speaks, and he is wearing makeup specially originated in the Capitol. I always found the Capitol citizens to be deranged in a way, since they all walk around in the most bizarre fashion sense I have ever witnessed. The man is wearing bright lilac eye shadow with blue eyeliner, and his eyebrows have been tinted a light shade of green. His light brown hair is cut short and his black suit goes quite well with his gold buttoned-down shirt.

"Happy Hunger Games!" No one moves, let alone smiles. The people of the Capitol believe this is a celebratory time of year, but they never consider what it feels like for the tributes. They watch the games with greedy eyes, betting on who will be the lone victor and shouting when one tribute is about to kill another.

The man up on the stage, whose name was Remus, paused before continuing with his lecture. "Now, let's not waste time. After all, we need two tributes for District 1." You could tell the level of sorrow increased in less than a second, just from a short sentence.

Remus Lupin snapped his fingers to get the staff's attention, and suddenly a fuzzy grey background appeared on the right television screen. It took a few moments for the second electronic device to kick in and match the first's actions, but soon both were up and running. The blurry message flickered and then switched hesitantly over to a familiar video, straight from the Capitol. I've heard and watched this same video since the first time my name was entered in the tournament; I'm even surprised how I don't have it memorized yet. All I know is the first line of the informative video, and I repeat it in my head as it blares out through the speakers to the audience.

_War. Terrible war. _

The message goes on for about four minutes, and clearly Remus knows it like the back of his hand, because I can see him muttering under his breath as his words are faintly absorbed into the microphone.

But when the video ends, Remus announces to the watching crowd about a new addition to the selection ceremony; only for this year. "I just love seeing that video, don't you?" We all look at him like he's a slug or something.

"Right…" he mumbles, fumbling with his groomed hands. "Well, as you may know or have heard, this year is the 100th anniversary of The Hunger Games, which means it's the fourth Quarter Quell. This next message is from the President himself, all the way from the Capitol!" Why he sounds like he's about to burst his excitement bubble, I don't know. Clearly he can't take in and absorb our sulking features.

And then the person I hate most in the world pops up on the biggest screen in the square…

President Moriarty.

"Greetings tributes." His teasing and frivolous voice echoes through my ears, and I feel my temperature rising while I stare at his perfectly washed face. He's pale and his cheeks have a touch of pink about them. His navy blue suit has no wrinkles around the trim or edges, and his jet black hair is slicked all the way against his scallop.

"I suppose you may be wondering why I'm so thrilled to introduce myself this year. Since this is the 100th year of The Hunger Games, I am delighted to announce a…favor if I should put it that way, just for you all. Over the years, I have been watching each and every single one of you in secrecy, whether you like it or not." You could tell people were offended and made disgusted looks cross their faces; come on, even I thought it was mildly creepy. Having President Moriarty, the most murderous person in the world, spying on me? Perhaps he knows that I've been hunting in the woods…

If so, I'm sure to be punished soon.

The President combs his shiny hair back with his hand before carrying on, only showing off his power. "Before I drop the news on to you, I'd like to inform you that I have added a few members to my help team for this year's games…" A couple dozen people start whispering, thinking that this only meant more harm done to us.

Two figures merged in on the screen, taking a seat next to their evil and trusty master. One had matching hair that resembled the President's, which grew to stop at the back of his long neck. The other had short, blonde hair, specifically cut to swipe over his forehead. The darker haired man is wearing a long black and green cloak, and he has some crazy hat with horns curling over the back of his skull. The blonde was simply dressed in a fine black suit, with a matching tie that fell over his chest.

"My friends…" A lot of people snorted in the audience. I myself wouldn't call us, _friends _to the President. "Let me introduce my two colleagues; Loki and The Master." I have no idea who those two men are, but from both their wicked grins, I can tell they'll come up with some mischief in this year's Hunger Games.

"So, now that you've met my partners, it's time for the announcement I've been _dying _to tell you about all day."

What a bad joke…Not cool…

"Since this is the fourth Quarter Quell, while I've been observing you all, I have chosen 24 of you to represent your districts. 24 have already been chosen, and those are the only names that are lying in the bowls on the stages you're standing before. One lucky person is all that's in those bowls, and they will be the tributes in this year's Hunger Games. I have selected a various group of people who I believe will make a most…entertaining, event for the people of the Capitol."

Oh, stuff just got serious. Now everyone was wondering what one name remained in the selection bowls. Whoever it was, they had been selected especially by the President.

And now if you were picked, there really was no backing out. You were the only one would could be up for selection.

"So." The President took a long draw in his speech, and he bowed his head; perhaps to show his snickers for us. "I bid you all good luck and a happy Hunger Games. And remember," he sneered, "May the odds be ever in your favor." The screen squished into one thick wire, and then collapsed and became darkness once more.

Lupin stepped back up to the microphone to bellow out to the audience once more. "Well, it's that magical time!" The announcer flared his arms and bounced up and down excitedly, his bow tie swaying back and forth under the neck of his shirt. "Of course, ladies first."

He left to approach a large, crystal ball filled with pieces of paper. Each one of those slips has a name on it, and one unlucky person will be selected to fight in the games. Remus flexed his hand in the bowl and mixed around in the bucket before choosing his suitable name. He held it before his nose as he came back to announce the name to the entirety of the district; the name of the person the President had selected to compete.

"Nyota Uhura."

Whoever she was, I had didn't know. There were sighs of relief from the girls who hadn't been picked, and it took a while for the selected tribute to extract herself from the surrounding bodies. She was tall for seventeen, with darker skin and hard brown eyes. Her silky brown hair was pulled back in a right ponytail, and she looked as though her eyelashes would fall off at any second; they were so long they almost extended up to meet her eyebrows. Not bad for making all those deductions from seeing her walk up onto the stage.

Uhura fumbled with her hands as Lupin declared he would now select the boy tribute. The whole left side of people froze, even with inhaling, because this could've been the moment that would change their lives forever. I felt my stomach drop as he pulled out a familiar white sheet of paper with a name in black ink under the fold. Lupin's footsteps grew louder as he came back to the microphone, and he coughed, startling the audience before yelling out the words.

Off in the distance my mother must have covered her hand with her mouth she was so frightened, and maybe even my brother had tensed up muscles because of this day. I gathered up a large quantity of hot air that I swear I was on the verge of passing out; droplets of perspiration were beginning to line my forehead, and I shook from head to toe as my eyes went wide in terror.

Because the name he spoke to the audience, four syllables and all, was my own.

"Sherlock Holmes."


	2. The Awakening

**Tick Tock Goes The Clock (Chapter 2)**

The Awakening (Clara Oswin Oswald's POV)

* * *

I hear my name ring out across the audience as my bones have frozen in shock. Why me? Of all people, why the soufflé girl?

To be 100% honest, I don't exactly know where the idea of me making soufflés came from; my mother used to bake splendid ones when I was a little girl, but I never seemed to master her cooking skills.

And she always used to say, "The soufflé isn't the soufflé; it's the recipe that counts."

The Hunger Games rise and fall, concurring over the tributes and become the best at the boiling point, hot in temperature as the fans watch on with begging expressions on their faces.

And I'm the recipe. I can be changed constantly, and I will be once I step one foot into that arena.

The lady standing up on the stage yells my name a little louder, as if I had been deaf and didn't hear her the first time.

"Clara Oswin Oswald!"

Someone who knows my personality shoved me in the back, snapping me out of my visions and hissing at me to step forward. Hundreds of heads had turned to scan the crowd, and the citizens who knew me pointed to direct the lost gaze at me.

My dark brown ponytail swings as I take one step closer to the announcer, and by now everyone is looking at me. My pink cheeks are bulging as the guards dressed in all white come to escort me up onto the platform. They walk side by side next to me, bearing weapons in case anyone decided to attack, but of course no one dared to move an inch.

I had pulled my hair back into a short ponytail, no part showing down the center of my head, and I tightened it before heading up the steps. Antonia Baract is waving for me to join her on the stage, standing in lime green high heels and eyelashes batting faster than hummingbird wings.

I take her hand at the top of the staircase and she leads me over to the left side of the microphone, sliding over to announce the tribute. "Let's have a hand for our first tribute! What's your name dear?"

My own title slips from my mouth like a monotone robot, and I am staring at the toes of the remaining girls in the front row. "Clara Oswin Oswald." How dumb. She should already know my name. For God's sake, she just pulled it from the glass sphere…

"Well! How about a big hand for Clara?" As usual, the speaker starts clapping her hands together, but the rest of the district does not. Instead, they press their three middle fingers together and curl the rest into the center of their palms, kissing the ends of their hands and raising them silently into the air; in our terms, this is a sign that means good luck, and almost I'm sorry in a way. They remain in this position for ten seconds, all the while Antonia standing like she'd broken a law. When everyone was still again, she continued with her speech.

"Now, we need a male to join our female tribute, don't you think?"

No, we really don't is what I think about that pronouncement. Nonetheless, Antonia clicks her high heels together and prances prissy like over to the second crystal ball sitting on a table before the petrified crowd.

Her hand plunges into the depths of the basin, shuffling the papers around even though they all contain the same name. She finally selects one, and from the top of the pile too, and comes to the microphone to read it aloud. I am still shaking, wondering which lucky male will come to join me.

The name she speaks out loud is someone I know and have seen passing around the district recently. Only did I get a glimpse of him earlier when we were checking in, but now I have the full opportunity to observe him up and down.

"Our male tribute for District 10 will be James Kirk."

There's some shuffling and soft mumbles while the guards try to extract Kirk from the crowd. I think from the looks of it he tried to pull away from their outstretched arms, but there are too many to escape and he's shoved into the center aisle of the square.

Antonia holds out her hand for him as he slowly ascends the stairs, coming to join me on the stage. Again there are hundreds of hands raised into the air as our fellow district members wish us the best of luck and hope we survive.

"Our tributes for District 10, Clara Oswin Oswald and James Kirk!" I can already imagine my name ringing out to the citizens of the Capitol, cheering me on while pleading for a violent show of the 100th Hunger Games. I spot a few of my friends in the crowd, staring up at me with distressed eyes; some were on the verge of tears, and others simply wanted to leave the meeting place.

"Well, go on you two! Shake hands!" I cannot believe the tributes are forced to do this every year. It seems like when we enter the arena there's at least one pair of district members who kill each other. All the others die from injuries, dehydration, freezing, murder, or starvation. I know I am already starving here in District 10, and I don't plan on dying in the games because I can't find enough food to fill my stomach.

Nevertheless, I take his hand in mine and they swing in a normal greeting direction. His palm feels clammy and I wipe it off after our lock lets go. He's got hard, blue eyes and I can't tell if they're filled with misery or defeat. His face however certainly looks prepared for war.

"Thank you everyone!" Antonia flicks both her wrists and the blue curls in her hair bounce up and down. "Happy Hunger Games! And remember; may the odds be ever in your favor."

Once the television shuts off and the lights lining the stage are powered down, the announcer turns and scoots us off towards the entrance of the city hall building. There, we're separated and sent to two rooms where we sit alone for the time being. The peacekeepers are no doubt gathering up our families so they can bid us goodbye.

I look up from the marble floor and see a reflector hanging on the wall, clearly nailed there for no other purpose but decoration. I look in the mirror and I try to see myself. All I can really see is a scared teenager, no more than twelve years old, staring right back at me. The silhouette of me contrasts against the blinding white window, even containing a little hair flip where my ponytail is.

The door suddenly clicks open and my father rushes in, followed closely by another guard. "You have two minutes," he announces, just as my single parent has me locked in a hug. The peacekeeper leaves us in silence so we can have some privacy.

"Clara…" My father's voice is distinct in my ear, soothing the way it used to be when he tucked me into bed as a young child.

"I'm fine," I say over and over, though he knows I lied and I'm not. He breaks away so he can bend over me, planting a kiss to the top of my skull. "I'll be okay," I say, rubbing my smooth hand over his cheek and brushing away a salty tear. He grabs my palm with a shaky exhale, staring at his never-forgotten little girl to take in all my facial features.

"Just be smart." His advice comes in a short sentence and I nod in comprehension. "You know what's best to do in troubling situations. Just think before you act."

"If I manage to make it out of there alive-" He cuts me off with a violent shake of his head.

"No. You _will _make it out alive."

"Father, there's 24 of us. You expect the skinny twelve year old to miraculously survive? The only one who lives?" My level of positive thinking is in the negatives; below zero percent.

"Don't underestimate yourself," he tries to convince me that I'm going to win.

The wooden door creaks open again and the guard has come to take my parent away from me; forever. "I love you dad. Whatever you do, keep yourself from starving." I try to sum up my last words in a hurry, but it just escapes from my mouth in a jumbled puzzle. One more short squeeze around my collar bone, and then he's taken back through the door.

And I know I'll never see him again. Never feel his warm body heat; never hear his comforting words ever again. Nothing.

There's no one else to see me. My father's the closest person I have to my heart; even some of my friend's can't match up enough to be considered as a 'lover.' I am trapped in that room for another half an hour, my light pink dress coming down over my thighs and my too big socks folding over the laces of my hiking boots. I even start to chew on my fingernails because I'm so deprived of leaving my home.

Antonia comes back into the room to sweep me away, pushing me ahead of her out of the building's entrance. Both of us tributes are walking in front of her, and the remaining crowd that blocks the square is ordered to step aside for us as if we're gods. A few young kids wave to me while I carry on, heading for an oversized car at the end of the road.

James Kirk opens the door and steps aside for me to board. "Thank you," I say, really meaning it and marveling at his manners. Antonia sits in between us in the back seat, blabbering away about what the Capitol is like but both of us aren't paying attention. I stare out the window while the district watches us leave forever and briefly glance over at my opponent on the other side of the vehicle. Kirk tries to hide his face but fails because I notice there are tears springing to his eyes. He wipes them off on the sleeve of his shirt, sniffling as his cheeks camouflage to red.

To pass the time, I tune into Baract's story of the wealth of the Capitol, boasting at the mention of silver kitchen utensils, leather couches, and crystal chandeliers. Somehow, she changes the topic and covers President Moriarty instead. "He's quite the man," she exclaims, patting me on my ear and clipping my palm with her deadly fingernail. "I've met him myself. If you ever have the urge to drink tea, he's the perfect person to visit."

Like I'd ever want to have tea in my spare time with the man who organizes The Hunger Games…

"Do they have better food with vitamins in the Capitol?" Kirk spoke up for the first time since the reaping, leaning forward in his seat so both of us girls got a good view of his ghostly face. It was a serious question in my opinion, but Antonia clearly thought the wonder was foolish. She laughed like a hyena and spat out a reply with nonchalance. "Of course, dear boy! The Capitol has the best food in all of Panem. I think your time there will teach you a thing or two about how fabulous the area can be."

I rolled my eyes and went back to staring at the trees zooming by. Eventually we came across large fields where the livestock were and people off in the distance prepared to feed the beasts. "Such a pitiful job," Antonia pitched in, a disgusted look on her face. "Who'd ever want a job like that?"

"Well, I'm sure if you were assigned it it'd show you a thing or two about how to properly act instead of being a prissy all the time." Her lips formed the shape of an 'O' as I'd just burned her. The only thing people thought about in the Capitol was fashion, as everyone dressed like rainbow butterflies only with the volume turned up 300 percent.

The car comes to a halt beside an abandoned train station. A few selected citizens stop their work to stare at the two teenagers representing District 12 in the few coming weeks. About another dozen guards keep a watchful eye for any intruders that prevent us from boarding our next mode of transportation. A few of the younger children tried to reach out and snatch my dress, seeing as they weren't as nicely outfitted as I was. One of the boys who must have been five years old was wearing only a ragged pair of pants; the absence of a pair of leather shoes made me feel thankful to have boots at all.

A shorter guard assists me onto the train, pushing his weapon aside so I can pass without being blown to bits. Kirk follows with a bow of his head so he can duck under the doorframe without smacking his head.

Just the sight of the train alone makes both of us goggle at the piles of food sitting on the table untouched. Fuzzy blue seats are rearranged in a perfect circle for meetings, a large window cover the entire back arch of the train, leaving us with a phenomenal view of our district. A long, rectangular table is in the center of the room, directly in the view of a large television airing news live from the Capitol.

Someone coughs from the back of the train and startles both me and Kirk, blending in significantly well against the 'C' shaped bench. In fact, only her pale face stuck out against the fabric. Her hair was a blueberry shade of blue and the irises in her eyes were lilac purple. Whether it was contacts lenses or her actual eye color, I couldn't tell the difference.

"Ah, I suppose these are my tributes," she said, standing up and smiling at both of them. "Congratulations, you've just landed yourself in a 95% chance of dying in the next week and I'm here to help you fortunately survive." A goblet full of wine was in her hand and Antonia cleared her throat to make the mentor cut to the point.

"What're your names?" the unknown adult questioned, strolling over to stop two meters before them.

The male looked at me but I indicated for him to speak first. "James Kirk," he said in his low voice, bowing his head and shaking her bony hand.

"Such a handsome young man too," the woman commented, pinching his chubby cheeks as Kirk raised his eyebrows.

"And what about Ms. Lady over here?" I placed my hands on my hips at her taunting name, but then crossed my arms as I announced my name.

"Clara Oswin Oswald." I too shook her hand and she seemed to gain some interest in me.

"And what exactly is your job?" Kirk addressed her like a slug, giving her a displeasing look because she hadn't informed them of her purpose.

Antonia pushed through her two tributes, making a clicking noise with her tongue and shaming Kirk and myself. "You two really need to polish up on your manners."

"Oh give them a break." We were all shocked to hear the nameless girl speak to defend us. "How would you feel if all that you had was taken from you and your name was called out in front of the entirety of the Capitol just to play a role in The Hunger Games?"

Kirk and I looked like twins. We both had our mouths open and were keeping a sharp eye on the girl with the wine. She took a swig of the red liquid and gulped loudly, showing her appreciation of the tasty beverage. Her spiky hair stuck out from her scalp by nearly half a foot, and she smirked while seeing the expressions on our dumbfounded faces.

"Nymphadora Tonks," she finally introduced.

She headed over to the couch and flopped down lazily, using an act of balance to make sure she didn't spill all over herself. "Nice name," Kirk remarked, causing wrinkles to form in his forehead. She gave him a death glare and motioned for us to come join her.

"I will be your mentor throughout the games," she informed us as we walked towards the furniture. "If you find yourself in the need of something, I can send it to you. Need advice, that's what I'm for." I took the seat opposite her in a comfy armchair, running my fingers over the felt since I'd never experienced the touch before. Tonks watched me with learning eyes as Antonia rambled on about the Capitol again, lecturing us all about platinum doorknobs and rainbow shower bubbles. She even mentioned something about real feathers pillows and squishy bed mattresses, but I soon zoned out and fixed my piggy eyes on some treats on the table beside me.

"You can have one you know…" my mentor announced, startling me as I failed to sneak a cupcake away. All three heads turned to me, coward like in my chair as I curled into a ball. "You're not going to get punished for eating real food. Heck, if I were you I'd consume as much of it as I could before I got thrown into the arena."

Kirk gave me a weak smile and flashed his eyes for me to eat. "Can you pass me one?" he gestured, and I gladly processed his request. I put a chocolate cake in his hand, vanilla icing on top accompanied by confetti sprinkles to complete the sweet. "Thanks."

I couldn't find the simple words of "you're welcome" to say back, but Kirk turned away regardless and released some of the pressure off of me. "So, how do we survive in the arena?"

"Whoa," Tonks said, holding up her hands after another sip of the alcohol. "Eager to begin, are we?"

I made a sort of 'no duh' look with my face, but it wasn't me who knocked some sense into her. "Well, yeah. You're our mentor, and you're supposed to give us tips on how to survive."

"Well…" she mocked her male tribute, "The main thing you need to keep in mind is to stay away from any enemies. Even you two should be at least 500 yards apart from each other." She took her time in pointing at both of our chests.

"Why?"

"Because you have no idea when a random tribute may come flying out of nowhere, draw a weapon in under a second flat and fling it in your direction. The difference of even a second could mean the survival or death of you."

A kind of disturbed silence followed her advice. I finally got up the courage to say something to her face, brushing the last of my cupcake crumbs from my lap. "How long is this trip?"

"We'll arrive at the Capitol tomorrow morning. You two are lucky you don't have as long of a ride as other districts do." Antonia finished her sentence with a little shimmy of her shoulders, delighted of the result.

"Can I get some alone time?" I suddenly blurt out, standing up and waiting for a rapid response.

"S-sure, dear," Antonia answered, stuttering. "Just on up the hall through the doors. Once you reach the third car your room should be the second on the right."

"Thanks." I start to walk away but stop in the doorway, mumbling, "Excuse me."

The doors are even nice and automatically open when someone gets close enough. I can walk straight down the train, letting them peel open for me and reveal the next cart. Once I reach the compartment Antonia told me, I double check the rooms and find my sleeping area behind a steel barrier.

She was right. There was a bed that must have been twice the size of me in the center of the bedroom, pillows leaning up against the wall and a comfy duvet lying over the covers. I collapse onto the mattress and sink into the gloriousness, feeling like I was drifting on a cloud. A television sits on a cabinet at the foot of the queen sized piece of furniture, wired and set up so I can watch before I drift off to sleep.

I have no idea how long I just remained sprawled there, inhaling and exhaling and eventually closing my tired eyes. I literally must have stayed there for hours.

* * *

I had no idea I took a nap and only found out when I woke up a little while later. Someone had entered my room at the time because I now had a blanket draped over my spine. I presume it was Kirk, but my deranged brain could be telling me a big, fat lie.

I somehow manage to push up into a sitting position against the wall. The remote to turn on the screen was lying on the bedside table. I picked it up and misunderstood it for just a glass arch, but then when I pressed my finger to the cold surface and left a print the device came to life.

And of course what I least expected to see was airing on the telly, but it's really no surprise since the annual event is a few weeks away. They show bits and snippets from previous Hunger Games, including the ones that most people find to have the most memorable finales in the history of the games. They show the various scenes of arenas they've built over the years, and some were a desert, a tropical forest, a freezing sheet of ice, and even a city burned to rubble.

Some of the last killings of the games are so brutal and gory that I can't watch. I should suck it up because I'm going to witness live murders soon, but the vision of blood just grosses me out. It's amazing what the tributes kill each other with; they practically use whatever they have or can find. Depending on the supplies placed in the dome, whatever is sharp always helps to provide as a weapon. In the past, tributes have used the usual knives, spears, swords, bows, and lots others, but sometimes they use household items or things you'd normally use in real life. Bricks, rocks, even one guy used his sharp teeth one time to bite into his own district citizen's neck.

I shut the TV off as soon as I saw his face aim for the poor guy's throat.

The screen flashes with static after a three minute trailer collaged with Quarter Quell games, and the location fades to show a live alert from the Capitol. The announcer was one of the few citizens of the Capitol who actually looked normal, except for the sparkles in his navy blue hair. His eyes are such a stunning shade to match his hair, but everyone knows that it's his true eye color. He tends to dress in black whenever he has the opportunity, and he speaks with such enthusiasm that I believe he doesn't need a microphone to be heard all the way to the farthest district.

"Hello citizens of Panem!" He had a strange name yet no one dared to question it. I mistook his real name as a nickname the first time I heard it; Hawkeye. "Tonight, I am joined here with a very special guest who will be commentating alongside myself in this year's Quarter Quell. Mr. Chekov, welcome!"

"Thank you very much, Hawkeye! It is an honor to be with you today." He spoke in a very thick Russian accent, pronouncing his 'V's' as 'W's' and getting me all confused.

"Are you ready for these games?" Hawkeye wondered, his irises flashing in excitement.

"Oh, very! I always get fired up for zee games. It's the one time of the year where I get some sort of hope in my chest."

Ugh. I'd had enough. The electronic was turned off faster than I could say 'impossible.' Hmm…that's interesting. I think I'll call myself that.

The impossible girl.

My head sinks into the pillows and I drifted back off to sleep, smelling a fresh scent of a pink rose stacked in a vase beside my left hand.

* * *

I woke in the morning to a dull sunlight trying to peek in my room from behind some curtains. I rub my groggy eyes and sit up in bed, attempting to fix my curly hair before heading down the train cars for breakfast.

Kirk is already chewing on some bacon, discussing survival tactics with Tonks. Antonia stood pepping her appearance up in the mirror, elongating her eyelashes and brushing her brows into a flat shape. The door to the dining compartment opens for me and I step inside, interrupting their bonding conversation.

"Morning, Clara," Kirk pleasantly greets, patting on the seat next to him to indicate that I should sit down.

"What were you talking about?" I ask, my British accent popping out as I speak.

"I was just asking about how to blend in while in the arena."

"Oh. Any nice tips?"

Tonks shifts in her seat and spreads butter on her biscuit. "The best thing to do is use your surroundings. Dirt can be very affective and leaves tend to help as well. You'll learn more about that during your training in the Capitol."

"Speaking of the Capitol…" Kirk rises from his seat and heads over to the window, squinting in the sunlight to get a glimpse of a city off in the distance. "Oh my god…" His expression is pure astonishment and he waves from me to join him at the scene. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen…"

I see what he means once I reach his side. Towering domes are in two parallel lines with the main Capitol center in the middle, overlooking a shining lake. We pass over a roaring waterfall as we watch the silver structures blur going by, exposing the Capitol to our eyes for the first time.

The symphonic view is cut off as we pass through a tunnel, heading at over 100 miles per hour for the heart of the city. The sound of the wind howling is eliminated while we speed through the tube. The only color we can see past the reflection is grey, and we both turn to Tonks to see if she'll give us advice for when we arrive.

Time ticks way too quickly and soon the car is illuminated with light once more, painting in vibrant colors of pink, blue, green, and orange. Muffled shouts are heard from behind the barrier of the mode of transportation, greeting the fighters from District 10 in the 100th Hunger Games.

Kirk is the first to act and smiles while waving at the crowd, exposing his teeth as the Capitol citizens lung for the windows. The train has decreased in speed immensely and I wait for the jerk to come from under my feet. The halt comes much less intensely than I expect, and we continue to be friendly to the people dressed like freaky clowns.

"Come on you two!" Antonia suddenly squeals, grabbing us and shooing Kirk and I off the vehicle. I am not fully primed in appearance but nevertheless am forced off the train. A path has been cleared for us by some of the Capitol guards, pushing the greedy fans away who long to touch one of us. They act like we're celebrities or something, which seems fair as we're going to be broadcasted live in seven days.

"Where are we going?"

Tonks brings up the rear and concludes the destination of where we're headed for. "You two need to get cleaned up. You'll meet your stylists and get prepared for the chariot ceremony. They need to announce the opening of the games with a boom."

Antonia certainly knows where she's going and we let her lead the way. I swear we weave through at least 20 different hallways and six buildings, coming to a stop in a corridor that looks like it contains about a dozen showers.

"Well, have fun you two." We all come to stand in a square and Tonks gives us a smirk. "We'll see you at the start of the opening ceremony." And with a wink she escorted Antonia off to grab a bite to eat before the introduction of the tributes.

The bath the designers give me feels refreshing on my dry skin, and they clean me thoroughly from head to toe. The only bad part of the process is when they shave my legs, because when the sticky paper is ripped from my calves it burns like fire. Hands in rubber gloves get the knots out of my brown hair, combing out the layers of individual strands and they leave it down to dry.

The polishing up is so wonderful I completely forget to focus on life, and I somehow find myself in a cubical on my own, lying flat on my back and waiting for a noise to pierce the silence. The click of a door disrupts me and I sit up too quickly, blinking to get rid of the brown dots clouding my vision. A young man with thick, black hair steps towards me with a short stubble covering his chin. His eyes are a walnut shade of brown and his smile is almost afraid. He extends out his hand and I shake it, amused but his features.

"Hello, Clara," he says, already knowing my name and taking a seat next to me on the squishy surface resembling a hospital bed.

"Hi." God I sounded so cheeky.

"Before you ask, I'm Neville." He introduces himself and explains that he's my stylist. He's the one who is planning to dress me in the Capitol fashion, turning me from a poor girl from the livestock District 10 to an angel.

"I just watched the reaping." Well, that isn't creepy at all… "I am truly sorry that this happened to you."

"Yeah." I sink my head in shame and express my feelings full out with no problem. "I never expected it to be me. Especially for the fourth Quarter Quell as well."

"That's why I'm here to help." His voice lowers and is soothing, almost twinning my father's. "See, this year is different because it's the 100th anniversary of the Hunger Games. So, I want people to remember you tonight."

"So, I can be the impossible girl?"

He smiles and tugs my palm. "More like impossible to forget." He slams his hands on his thighs and jumps up to guide me with him. "Let's get to work."

* * *

"You two look unstoppable!"

Antonia stands before us tributes with a huge grin on her face, brushing off a few last hairs and seems from our costumes. Kirk and I are wearing matching outfits, the velvet a deep shade of red and the shoulder pieces draped over to expose our skin. I look like a Victorian lady, and I definitely can't deny that I look fantastic.

We're standing in an open room with all the other tributes in the games, preparing to see the crowd that awaits us for the first time. The tributes ride in on chariots as an opening explosion for the fans, helping the watching citizens to get a brief idea of what the contestants are like. A few of the tributes from the other districts look like I could become their allies, but other just sneer and try to look invincible.

The female who stands out the most to me is the girl from District 11. Her bushy brown hair falls right over her chest, and her two front teeth are so large I think they belong to a beaver. Her fellow district member is tall very charming. Blonde hair flipped over with gel, he almost has bodybuilder muscles in his upper back and wears a red, white, and blue suit. The girl with the big teeth is also a symbol and has on a silvery-blue dress to go with the boy's.

I scan my opponents carefully and make little clues about certain ones. No offense, but the girl from District 2 looks like she belonged in a fairytale rather than a death tournament. Her tribute I can tell is not one to trust. He clearly hasn't shaved in his life, as a scruffy beard covers his chin and his hair comes down to his shoulders. He stares at everyone with hate and disgust, and I know people will enjoy the murderous boy killing others.

The girl from District 4 is definitely tough, not afraid to show defeat or fear. She has short, cherry hair and lipstick that just puts her hair color to shame. The boy from 6 has black hair and hard, brown eyes, cheeks slightly puffy but noble in posture as he stands by his cart. The girl from District 9 has almost white-blonde wavy hair and walks with sass in her hips.

The girl from 12 also gets me; very curly hair and bright green eyes, she seems to be joking around with her boy tribute, who just plays along casually and has blonde locks that sweep over his skull. As he catches my eyes I turn the other direction bashfully. He has shocking blue irises and his smile makes him look like a cute hedgehog.

"Tributes!" A booming voice comes on a loudspeaker and everyone stops shuffling around. "Please get ready to enter on your chariots!"

"That's your cue!" Antonia giggles, pushing us up onto the chariot. "Now remember, smile, wave, and make us proud!"

"Geez Antonia, give them some space," Tonks said, extending her arm out and forcing her to step a few paces back.

"Show them who you really are." And with a wink and a thumbs up, the chariots that were lined up lurched forward to start the parade.

The sleds go in order by districts, so ours was second to last. The garage door at the end of the runway pulled back to unveil and ear-splitting, roaring crowd, just anxiously waiting for the tributes to make their debut. Once the car in front of ours goes, the horses pulling the chariot of District 10 trot forward to star in the parade.

Hundreds of spectators are lined in rows, waving flags or trying not to spill their glasses of champagne. Like Antonia said, I smile and look like I'm about to enter a lottery winning contest, and bunches of fingers point to me and I know I'm already becoming favorites. The road we ride down is about a quarter mile, and as we wheel along a group of men bang on drums and gongs to celebrate our visit to the Capitol.

Kirk is doing the same thing I am and is gaining more attention. Probably because he's more attractive and easier to be seen, but I stand on his right and continue with my well-working plan.

At the end of the runway, the road spreads out wide to form a bowl shape, and the chariots are divided to land in a semicircle; even districts on the left, odd on the opposite. The music becomes faint and the audience seems to hold their breath, waiting for the next step in the introduction to take place.

A man suddenly steps in from the shadows of a balcony high above, accompanied by two men in groomed, black suits. The citizens of Panem and the Capitol rejoice, beaming at the sight of the man who organizes the games. The man who watches his own people die for fun.

President Jim Moriarty.


End file.
